


Fowl Fiend

by reflectionsofalex



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, Crowley Has ADHD (Good Omens), Crowley hyperfocuses on ducks, Ducks (Good Omens), Gen, Humor, Reading, Slice of Life, bookshops, can demons have adhd? yes, maybe not humor so much as Gentle and Domestic, that's it that's the story, their relationship is left up to the reader, why? because i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reflectionsofalex/pseuds/reflectionsofalex
Summary: In which Aziraphale takes responsibility as a bookshop owner and Crowley develops a new hyperfixation.





	Fowl Fiend

**Author's Note:**

> I hyperfocused while writing this and I think that's poetic.

An angel and a demon walked into a bookshop.

It was nothing special, at least, not special in the way A.Z. Fell & Co. was. The shop was just modern enough to make Aziraphale scoff, and before today he had never stepped through its doors.

They were having a sale on some classics though, and as much as Aziraphale didn’t care for newer versions, it would be nice to have some copies to sell to his more insistent customers.

Crowley grumbled.

“Oh hush. You chose to come with me, don’t start whining about it now.”

He grumbled again, louder this time.

Aziraphale sighed. “It shouldn’t take too long, dear. Why don’t you go look at some books on plants while you wait?”

For some reason this offended Crowley, and he shot the angel a glare before stalking off to do just that.

He didn’t need any books on plants, obviously; his were well aware of the consequences of bad behavior. It was better than standing around and waiting for Aziraphale, though.

Crowley weaved his way through the shelves, following the signs to the science section. Plants were science, right? He let his fingers run across the book spines as he strode past, idly glancing at the genres listed on cheap looking placards. Biographies? Lame. History? Old hat, and probably inaccurate. Personal finance? Solid nope. Animal science? Yeah ri-

Wait.

The demon paused when his eyes caught on a book displayed on top of the shelf. _Waterfowl of England_. There was a photo of a nice-looking duck on the cover. Crowley frowned, pulling the book down from its stand.

That saying about no two snowflakes looking the same is almost correct. The processes of branching and faceting ensure that on the molecular level, each snowflake is unique, just like most everything else in the universe. However, scientists have manufactured laboratory snowflakes that appear absolutely identical under a microscope, essentially negating any visible differences.[1] It would be impossible to discern which snowflake was which just by looking.

Ducks are sort of like that, but not really.

To the untrained eye, most ducks of the same species look, well, the same. To the trained eye they still mostly look the same, but it becomes easier to note key differences.

Crowley had been around since before ducks were called ducks. His eyes had millennia of training behind them, and he would be dam- bles- a right fool if he didn’t recognize the bird on the cover.

He knew this duck. After closely scrutinizing the photo, Crowley was certain of it. He had fed it just the other day during one of his and Aziraphale’s not-really-clandestine-anymore-but-still-vaguely-secretive-because-habits-are-hard-to-break meetings at St. James’ Park. It must be the same duck. This called for an investigation.

Plant books forgotten, Crowley settled onto the floor, taking care to inconvenience anyone who wanted to pass through by spreading out as far as possible. Another day, another wile.

The book was surprisingly large, filled to the brim with information on all kinds of water-dwelling birds one could find in England. Crowley tended to avoid anything with more than a few dozen pages as a rule, but something about this tome of duck knowledge piqued his interest.

He flipped through the pages with feigned indifference[2], occasionally lingering on a picture he found particularly neat. Crowley didn’t actually read anything until he landed on a section entitled “Aythya Fuligula: The Tufted Duck.” 

Unlike his friend, Aziraphale loved winter. The angel derived some kind of sick pleasure from dragging Crowley away from the warmth of blankets and indoor heating during the holiday season, insistent on admiring the lights and decorations hung around London. Crowley made a point of griping about the chill during these outings, but--though he would never admit it--he did enjoy when their December walks took them to the pond in St. James. Tufted ducks frequented the park in the winter, and Crowley rather liked tufted ducks.

They weren’t his favorite, of course. That would be ridiculous. Demons don’t have favorite kinds of ducks.

Hidden behind the usual dark lenses, Crowley’s eyes drifted to the text without his permission. His mind latched on before he could even finish the first sentence and the world around him gently faded away.

* * *

Aziraphale nearly dropped the basket when he tried to pick it up, unsuspecting of its now considerable weight. 

“Oh dear,” he murmured, gazing wistfully at the Lope de Vega collection he’d set his sights on. He looked back at the basket, calculating. One more wouldn’t hurt.

The books themselves were brand-new[3] and didn’t really fit with Aziraphale’s style, but the content was familiar and comforting as ever. He had only planned on grabbing a few books to set out for his own occasional customer, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but delve into those stories he was most fond of.

His basket was heavy though, and so full it made the angel worry about the safety of the books on top. It would probably be for the best if he finished up.

Aziraphale scanned the store for red hair and tight black jeans. He hadn’t seen or heard from Crowley since their arrival, and while thankful for the lack of distraction he was a bit worried about what the old snake might be doing to entertain himself. A glance at the clock hung above the register told him over two hours had gone by. A bored Crowley left to his own devices in public for an extended amount of time? That rarely ended well for anyone.

Careful not to jostle the basket, Aziraphale hurried in the direction he’d sent the other. In all likelihood Crowley had moved on from manuals about plants and gardening, if he had looked at them at all, but he needed to start somewhere.

He never made it to his destination, but he certainly found what he was looking for. Crowley was sprawled out across an entire aisle in a position that couldn’t be comfortable, feet raised to rest against one shelf and head propped up on the opposite. To Aziraphale’s astonishment, he appeared to be reading.

“Crowley?” He tentatively inched towards the demon, wary of possible shenanigans. “Are you ready to go?”

No response, not even a twitch.

“Crowley.”

Nothing.

_“Crowley.”_

He turned a page and continued not reacting.

Aziraphale huffed and set his basket down before he could drop it, then kneeled on the floor next to the unnaturally still being. He flicked Crowley on the nose.

With a yelp the demon jolted out of his trance, smacking his head on one of the shelves. They both winced.

“Ngk.” Crowley looked around in confusion. “Angel? What the heaven was that for?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, unsure whether he should be exasperated or amused. “I said your name three times, my dear.”

“I- wh- really?” his brow furrowed.

“Truly.” Aziraphale picked the book from where it had fallen. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you read. What’s got you so interested?”

“I am literate, you know,” Crowley mumbled, still feeling slightly disoriented. He had only just sat down; he wasn’t expecting to be interrupted so soon (or so rudely). Since when was Aziraphale so quick at picking out books, anyway? This must be a new personal record.

A soft smile spread across the angel’s face when he saw what Crowley had been so focused on. He should’ve known.

“Been reading up on ducks these past two hours, have you?”

Crowley started to feel embarrassed, then paused. “Two hours? We haven’t been here that long, angel.”

“Longer, actually. I think we’re coming up on half two now.” He tried to keep from looking smug, but he was certainly feeling it. After all the ribbing about Aziraphale’s tendency to lose himself in his books, here was Crowley, just as guilty.

At this point a little divine retribution wasn’t uncalled for.

“And here I thought you detested reading. Silly of me, really. I never realized just how big of a duck fanatic you were.”

Now Crowley was really feeling embarrassed. He snatched the book away and stood, placing it delicately back where he had found it. 

“I was bored and grabbed the first thing with pictures in it. I don’t even like ducks.” It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

Aziraphale reached around Crowley to retrieve the book with a hum, then turned on his heel and walked towards the front of the shop. His lips quirked up at the sound of Crowley sputtering behind him.

“What are you doing?” he cried out, dramatic as ever.

“I’m paying for our books.”

“What do you mean, ‘our books?’” Crowley trailed after Aziraphale when it became clear he didn’t plan to stop. “I’m not getting any books.”

“Yes you are.”

“I don’t like books.”

“You like this one.”

“That’s actually not true.”

“Angels don’t lie, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale-”

“Oh look, no queue. How convenient.” Aziraphale stepped up to the register, leaving Crowley to sulk by the door.

He sulked the whole drive back, too, but Aziraphale could tell it was mostly for show. Despite his apparent irritation, Crowley helped carry the books inside, unceremoniously dumping his pile on the table Aziraphale had cleared before making a beeline for the back room, new book in hand.

Aziraphale let him be. He arranged the display, then rearranged it, then repeated the process for a good while. 

The afternoon lazily rolled into the evening. By the time Aziraphale made his way to the back room the sun was beginning to set. Crowley had draped himself across the couch and was too absorbed in _Waterfowl of England_ to notice the newcomer. 

For right now, their world was peaceful. Aziraphale got comfortable in the armchair and did some reading of his own, savoring the calm before the relentless storm of duck facts that was sure to come.

**Author's Note:**

> 1This study was conducted, ironically, at Caltech. Nobody is sure why it was funded or where the funds came from.[ return to text]
> 
> 2Just in case anyone was watching. He did have a reputation to uphold.[ return to text]
> 
> 3Band-new by Aziraphale's definition, at least. A few years ago the bookstore had added a hefty amount of more recently printed classics to their stock, figuring their more refined readers would appreciate renditions of _Frankenstein_ and _The Scarlet Letter_ that weren't yellowed with age. Refined readers had recently been added to the endangered species list, unfortunately, and not many purchases were made (hence the sale).[ return to text]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Domesticity (How I Hate The Domestic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270800) by [The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea)


End file.
